Game Theory
by prone2dementia
Summary: Sergeant POV, featuring Wolf. "When he spotted Cub—looking sheepish, with a duffel slung over one shoulder—the sergeant knew this was the wrong week to quit smoking." Oneshot for ObsessivelyOdd. No pairings.


Warnings: possible typos because ff dot net is driving me crazy by stringing all my italicized words together, pg 13 language, off screen violence, and it gets a little weird, but please trust me.

. . .

Game Theory

When he spotted the boy—looking sheepish, with a duffel slung over one shoulder—the sergeant knew this was the wrong week to quit smoking.

"Dear _God_, no."

"Nice to see you too," said Cub mildly, undeterred.

"Dear God, _no_."

Cub studied him with concern, and though the sergeant wouldn't have revealed it on pain of death, he was decidedly disconcerted by the boy's calm gaze. "What?"

Cub's smile was like slamming on all the lights in a room before anyone was ready. The sergeant blinked away his temporary blindness, only to find that Cub had pushed past him in the meantime.

"This place is a dump," the boy commented lightly, matter-of-fact, peering around and frowning as his eyes slid over an upturned box in the living room.

"That's a coffee table," the sergeant growled in explanation, unamused at the feeling of being judged and found wanting.

Cub laughed and raised one eyebrow. "Did I ask?"

Indignant, the sergeant huffed and said nothing. He stalked to the kitchen, grabbing a beer and his spare set of keys, before returning. He stopped short at the sight of Cub singlehandedly hauling his battered sofa to the adjacent wall.

"What the hell...?"

Cub straightened, ignoring the sergeant's bewildered expression as he dusted off his hands. Appearing pleased with himself, he reached for the now forgotten keys and pocketed them, nodding his thanks.

He gestured back to the sofa. "You had this right under the window, facing in. If you were sitting there when an assassin came, you'd've made the perfect target."

The man spluttered, turning red. The worst part about this was that he knew Cub was completely right.

"And why would I need to worry about assassins?"

Cub gave him an affronted look, as though the sergeant were a kid playing dumb. "You've been briefed."

"With substandard information! They barely told me anything!"

At Cub's silent, self-satisfied nod, the sergeant had a sudden premonition that this was going to be a trying few weeks. It seemed they were playing a game, and they were playing by Cub's rules.

Cub's first order of business was to take him grocery shopping. Moreover, he demanded to drive, shrugging off the man's protests that he was underage and it was _illegal, _dammit.

"I've done worse," was all Cub said.

Somehow, the sergeant ended up with no choice in the matter. Every time he opened his mouth, Cub would cut him off. "Parsley and beer. _Parsley _and _beer_. That's all you have in your fridge."

In his defense, the sergeant had only just gotten home on leave, his BDUs freshly exchanged for civvies. For months he had been looking forward to this day, to slumping into bed and not rising for a week, but evidently Fate was having fun with him. In fact, Fate must've been having a damned good time because at Tesco's, as Cub was explaining that selecting perfectly ripened tomatoes was an _art_and the sergeant needed to stop _whining __like __a __child,_ he turned around and ran straight into an ex-K Unit member. Eagle.

What were the chances.

Apparently, the man had been watching them with morbid fascination. He was now clearing his throat. "I didn't know Cub was your son."

"He isn't," the sergeant snapped, at the same time Cub said, "I'm his illegitimate love child; of course you wouldn't've known."

Eagle stared back and forth between them.

"He _isn__'__t,__" _stressed the sergeant.

"Okay," said Eagle uncertainly.

"_He __isn__'__t_."

"Don't mind him," Cub told Eagle, his tone akin to that of a defense lawyer claiming his client's mental instability. "He repeats himself sometimes. It's the old age."

The sergeant was thirty-four, not old at all, thank you very much. He turned to Cub, speaking before Eagle could.

"Tell him you aren't." And his voice was firm, he told himself, not petulant in the least.

Cub had the audacity to laugh. "By now, I think he's realized that you're black and I'm not—which only leaves genetic engineering and adoption, neither of which is viable*."

"So," said Eagle, "you're... friends?"

Cub laughed harder.

The sergeant sighed. "I'm taking care of him for a few weeks."

"And his parents?"

"Dead," said Cub.

"Oh."

They lapsed into silence. It was terribly gauche. Cub, who'd returned to cherry-picking his tomatoes, didn't notice.

Eventually, Eagle turned away. "Well, it was nice seeing you again—" Though it wasn't, really. "I've got to get going."

He left.

"We're never coming here again," the sergeant muttered under his breath.

Cub snorted wordlessly.

That night, Cub made dinner as the sergeant watched from a safe distance, never straying further than the doorway, for fear of exploding something. When he tasted the pasta sauce and deemed it a pleasant surprise, Cub smiled. He accredited the tomatoes.

_Having __a __kid __in __the __flat __wasn__'__t __so __bad_, the sergeant decided afterward, sinking into bed. _Mostly __because __Cub __didn__'__t __act __much __like __a __kid._

. . .

He changed his mind the next day.

He woke up to a banging at the door—though truthfully he'd awoken earlier, his body still on military schedule, but had gone back to sleep—and stumbled to greet his visitors, two mates whom he'd served with several years ago. They took one look at the flat and asked when he'd gotten a missus.

"What?" he asked blankly. "I don't even have a girlfriend."

"Oh, c'mon," said Douglas, clapping him on the shoulder.

Maxwell nodded. "Who're you kidding, mate? Look around this place!"

The sergeant did. The boxes of pizza and takeaway that'd once littered the room were now gone, as were their stains. His television stand was no longer puking DVD's, and the books on his small shelf were rearranged in alphabetical order. There wasn't a single stray article of clothing, none even on the ceiling fan, and every surface gleamed. His flat was almost unrecognizable.

"Bloody hell," he remarked, "It's clean."

"I know! I can actually see the floor!"

Before the sergeant could berate the cheekiness, there was a thunk from behind them. The door swung open to reveal Cub, carrying a brand-new coffee table over his shoulder. Without acknowledging any of the men, he made his way to the living room and set his load down on the newly vacuumed carpet. The sergeant's beloved cardboard box was nowhere in sight.

"Bloody _hell.__"_

"You're doing that again," said Cub. "Turn off the repeat button."

The sergeant didn't bother to ask how Cub had known. "You cleaned," he declared, "my flat."

Cub agreed absently, aligning the coffee table parallel to the sofa. "It's therapeutic."

"Therapeutic."

"Right. After my guardian got blown up, I was stuck in a house all by myself. Cleaning helped me take my mind off things." Cub didn't seem to notice the ogling as he put away a small pile of cleaning supplies.

_Cub__'__s __guardian __had __gotten __blown __up_, the sergeant thought several times, without fully processing it, incredulous. On an instinctive level, he sincerely hoped the same wouldn't happen to him, while on an intellectual level, he thought Cub really needed to stop sharing tidbits like this, in his unsettlingly blank manner, as though he needed to be casual or he'd have a breakdown. It was troubling. It was as if Cub were being self-deprecating on purpose, bearing blame and daring the sergeant to pity him.

"Um, Ernest, mate? Who's this?" asked Maxwell.

"The missus," Cub replied sarcastically. Then to the sergeant, "Ernest? Really?"

The sergeant deigned not to answer, instead asking where Cub had found the table.

"Stole it," the boy answered, retreating to the room he'd claimed earlier. The others were left to stare after him, unsure if he was serious. The sergeant decided not to pursue it, suspecting that if Cub truly wanted to steal something, he wouldn't be caught in the act.

"Is he..." Douglas trailed off.

"My son? No."

"That's not what I was gonna ask."

"Well, I'm sorry then. Enlighten me," said the sergeant bitingly.

"I mean... is he a problem child? Have you signed up to be a foster parent in a sudden bout of charity?—"

"Insanity's more like it," muttered Maxwell.

"—To give back to the community or some rot like that?"

They both looked highly interested in the answer. The sergeant pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. No, I'm with the SAS most of the time, aren't I? I'm just looking after him for a while."

Though Douglas and Maxwell both agreed to trust his judgment, neither mentioned it being very sound. The sergeant suspected there was a good reason for that.

. . .

Cub and the sergeant settled into a rough routine. They didn't see each other much during the daytime, the man enjoying his break and the boy disappearing off to who-knows-where. Cub cooked and cleaned, and threatened violence on the sergeant's reproductive capacities (i.e. shooting him in the balls) when the man suggested they share the chores. Cub had an alarming proclivity for sniffing out and confiscating the sergeant's cigarettes, so he didn't even have that small comfort. Thankfully, Cub drew the line at doing his laundry.

Occasionally, the sergeant had friends over, and they either adored Cub or feared him, the latter of which he thought ridiculous. His mates all seemed to find their mutual monikers strange, however, as Cub had taken to calling the sergeant "Sarge" most of the time and "Ernie" when he was annoyed, while the sergeant had taken to saying "Cub" as one would say "Joe" or "Steve" or sometimes "dickhead".

The one time that the sergeant had a date over, Cub had been so charming that she'd entirely forgotten the sergeant's presence. He'd never tried again. Cub's inordinately pleased expression had been enough to last a lifetime.

A week into their cohabitation, the sergeant walked in on Cub practicing kata. It mesmerized and worried him in equal parts—though his worry might've been somewhat related to the Best of Queen's track playing in the background.

The next day, Cub disappeared. The sergeant called MI6, MI5, the police, even his contacts in the SAS for god's sake, merely to be talked in circles. It was worse than radio silence during a botched-up raid. Then, as he began worrying that his hair would turn prematurely gray, Cub walked in through the front door as if nothing had happened, entirely unrepentant, only telling him not to worry, everything was fine.

A day after his return, the sergeant found Cub's weapons. Amongst them was a recently bloodied knife.

That was when he decided they needed to talk.

"Four Brownings, two submachine guns, knives, a rifle and a _grenade __launcher_. All of them licensed, but not to you. Would you care to explain yourself, Cub?"

Cub's face was unapologetic as he said, "You've been briefed."

"Dammit, I know." But the sergeant didn't know. All they'd told him was that Cub worked for MI6 sometimes, for other agencies other times. He was a special circumstance, capable but still a minor. He had enemies.

"God, Cub, how've you been dealing with what they've put you through?" the sergeant found himself asking, wondering how many missions the boy had been on, and what he had seen and done.

Cub looked at him silently. The quiet stretched so long that the sergeant was amazed when he finally spoke.

"I owe you, don't I?" Cub sighed, continuing before the man could answer, "C'mon, there's something you should see."

Neither spoke as the sergeant followed Cub to his room. There, Cub crouched at the desk, pulling out an old maths textbook. Carefully folded into its pages was a thin sheaf of papers. He handed over the first page.

"Read it."

The sergeant regarded him suspiciously, before sliding his gaze down. The paper appeared to be a psych analysis, in medias res:

_Although he appears it, A. is not entirely sane. He is worryingly self-aware of this as well, admitting that he doesn't care much for his own well-being. He isn't a sociopath but appears able to dissociate from his feelings, rendering him alike to one._

There was a chunk of blacked-out text, and then:

_A. is driven mainly by revenge, though he doesn't display most of the signs associated with such a state. The latter observation may be irrelevant, however, as it is mentioned previously that he is quite self-aware. His control is unnatural and troubling._

The sergeant stopped reading. Most of the remaining portions were redacted anyway; it was obvious Cub had prepared this specially for the sergeant.

"Is this supposed to make me feel better?" he demanded

"It isn't supposed to make you feel anything," said Cub, characteristically pragmatic, as though this weren't a big deal. "It's just a report."

Cub's argument had so many fallacies that the sergeant didn't even know where to begin. Part of him was in disbelief. He'd just discovered that Cub was a pseudo-sociopath with control issues and a vow of revenge, and Cub was telling him that he shouldn't react. And still, Cub was acting _perfectly __normal_, as he'd always done.

Cub seemed to sense his dilemma. "Look. You wanted to know how I've fared since MI6, and this was supposed to make things simpler." His tone brooked no debate. "Clearly, I've miscalculated. I just... you know I don't like answering questions."

Indeed, he'd noticed that quality about Cub, who was careful never to let anything vital slip.

The sergeant studied the page again, realizing this time that Cub wasn't sacrificing anything, not really. The report provided no personal details, experiences or interviews—just observations, bare-bones facts. Cub remained as much a mystery to him as ever.

He considered inquiring about Cub's past, but suspected he wouldn't get any feasible answers. He then pondered whether to ask whom the boy wanted revenge against, but it wasn't the sergeant's place to know. In the end, he decided to let his newfound knowledge rest for the time being.

He sighed. "Well, while I'm here, there's something I should tell you too. I've been called back to Brecon Beacons for a bit."

"And I'll be coming along." Cub smiled, wry. "Yes, I was aware."

Surprised, the sergeant nodded. He had nothing else to add, so he turned to leave. At the door, he paused and looked back.

"One more question."

"Yes?"

"Where were you, when you disappeared? What were you up to?"

"I was in Botswana," Cub replied airily, "mainly giving consultations... with some killing on the side." _The __usual_, his timber seemed to imply, and it was unfortunate that the sergeant couldn't tell if Cub were joking anymore.

. . .

They left for Wales on a Thursday, traveling by car. The sergeant complained about Cub's taste in music, and Cub criticized the sergeant's in turn. Once, Cub even endeavored to act like a normal teenager by insulting the man's mother, but it had backfired horribly. The sergeant had laughed so hard he thought he'd have an aneurysm, and was forced to pull onto the side of the road.

After that, Cub began to read aloud from a stack of German books he'd brought along. For his own benefit, he said, not the sergeant's. With no better alternative, the sergeant made a game of parsing the language, using the meager knowledge he'd gained in grade school. The problem was that more often than not, he had to ask a question like, "Wait, did you just say the celery _ate _him?", even though the story didn't even involve celery. Cub never tried to hide his amusement, but he was patient, a good teacher. Somehow, the sergeant learned more in those scant hours than he ever had at school.

They received odd looks whenever they interacted with civilization, and to the sergeant's unending chagrin, he knew the looks were justified. (After all, they'd acquired the same treatment back home, hadn't they?) At a petrol station outside of Cheltenham, Cub parked himself on the car's boot and recited the pros and cons of plastic wrap to the sergeant—in German. The woman in the next car had leaned over and, clearly not wanting the crazy child to overhear her, asked in a low voice: "Is he making a euphemism about condoms?"

Cub had turned to her and said yes, deadpan, and the reaction had been priceless.

"Did you see her face?" asked Cub after, shaking with laughter. "I thought her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets."

The sergeant agreed wholeheartedly.

They'd almost reached their destination when Cub found out that the sergeant had never learned how to hotwire a car. Immediately, he deemed the situation unfit to stand and, once they reached the nearest town, forced the sergeant to find a car park.

"Cub," said the man with strained patience, "we are _not _hotwiring a poor victim's car."

It was a testament to his meager authority when Cub merely gave him a _look _and proceeded to drag him out to the nicest car in the lot. It was a convertible, with its hood rolled down. Cub hopped into the driver's seat as the man watched on, appalled.

"What if someone sees?" hissed the sergeant.

"Don't worry about it," was all Cub said. He removed the panels over the steering wheel column and showed him the wires, demonstrating how they should be paired. "Once you get the starter and power wires together, it's a go."

When the boy fell silent with an air of finality, the sergeant allowed himself a smidgen of hope. "So you're not actually going to do it."

Cub laughed. "Of course not. I'd need a screwdriver and a wire stripper, and I don't have magic pockets. Besides, hotwiring might not even work on this car. It's a newer model, so it's probably protected against theft."

As he said this, a woman paused before them on the pavement, hesitating. "What're you doing?"

"Just showing Ernie here how to hotwire a car," said Cub, before the sergeant could even open his mouth.

"But... why?"

Cub shot her a disarming grin. "It's an essential life skill." Judging by his tone, he might as well have added "you silly thing".

She blinked, disoriented, and laughed nervously. "Um, well, good luck."

And she was gone.

The sergeant stared slack-jawed after her, despairing for the lot of humanity. "She isn't even going to notify the police?"

Cub scrutinized him through narrowed eyes, as though suddenly worried the sergeant were an imposter. "What do you know of human nature, Sarge?"

He shrugged, attempting to ignore Cub's disappointed regard.

"People are selfish and judgmental," Cub supplied. "They don't want to get involved. They see us and think we look decent, so they walk away."

The sergeant didn't know how to respond. There was a tightness in his chest as he thought, _Cub__'__s __too __young __to __be __so __cynical_.

. . .

Their arrival at camp was without fanfare, though they received a fair number of indiscreet glances once they reached staff quarters. The sergeant led Cub through the halls to Command, and there Cub was assigned a room next to the sergeant's. After reviewing the rules, Cub was allowed to leave, and the sergeant was left alone with Major Hinshaw.

"Sargeant Adams," the officer said gravely, leaning forward in his desk, "I'm gonna level with you here. You're a good man. You do good work."

"Thank you, sir," he said uncertainly, because what else could he say?

"So I can't, with good conscience, lie to you about what you're dealing with."

"Dealing with?" This was altogether strange, and he wondered if he'd soon be having an out-of-body experience.

Hinshaw sighed and massaged his temples. He suddenly appeared very old, though he wasn't more than a decade older than the sergeant. "The boy, Alex Rider—" It was strange hearing that name, after thinking of Alex as Cub for so long. "—is a force to be reckoned with. You probably don't know this, but Rider has gone through five guardians in the past year alone. Three of the five met their ends gruesomely—either while Alex was staying with them, or shortly afterward—and the remaining two had asked for Alex to be removed only days after meeting him. What's more, all five were fully fledged MI6 agents."

The sergeant's mind whirled at this, a sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know what to think, and tried not to think anything because jumping to conclusions never ended well. Hinshaw's explanation was rather circumstantial, wasn't it?

"All I'm saying is," Hinshaw continued, "you should be careful around him. Take what he tells you with a grain of salt. He's a good liar, a good actor. He'll use you if he can. If he does anything, _anything, _out of the ordinary, it's your duty to inform us."

Realization dawned slowly on the sergeant, and he felt disgusted. He trusted his superiors, took their orders seriously, but that didn't mean he would follow them blindly. He'd spent enough time with Cub to form his own opinions about the boy and knew Cub had been victimized by MI6.

And now they wanted him to spy on their spy. How ironic.

Needing some air, he headed in the opposite direction of the rooms and ended up outside on the grounds. There was an exercise going on, the shouts of the instructors bouncing audibly off the buildings.

He remembered now that Squadron B of the SAS was presently on Counter-Terrorism duty, half of it stationed at Brecon on a constant state of alert, training the new recruits in the meantime. The sergeant stood watching from the sidelines as they ran their latest drill, trying not to stare too closely at the man on the far left.

It was hard; the man was Wolf.

Often, soldiers who went through selection joined an endless line of John Doe's. The sergeant barely remembered any of their faces, even the ones who made it through to the SAS, but K Unit had been an exception. Because they'd had Cub, and Cub had been a firecracker.

"You aren't being very subtle," said a voice by his ear.

The sergeant jerked, eyes widened in shock as he took in Cub's presence. Apparently, the boy could move without a sound. He was currently in jeans and a shirt, conspicuous in the sea of BDUs.

It wasn't a surprise when Cub said, "Oh, look, we've been noticed."

The sergeant glanced back toward Wolf, who was doing a dramatic double take. He recovered to leave his fellow instructors, not acknowledging their protests as he approached Cub and the Sarge, with single-minded determination written on his face. Their vicinity was beginning to hush, the men sensing an impending confrontation. Most of them recognized the sergeant, their gazes glossing over him, but they watched the boy—the stranger—as they would a circus freak show.

Up close, Wolf's eyes were the size of minor moons. "Cub. You're here."

"I'm glad you've got a firm grasp on the obvious."

Wolf didn't laugh, reiterating, "You're _here,__" _which caused Cub to toss an "Are you related?" in jest to the sergeant.

"Not funny," said the sergeant.

Perplexed, Wolf looked between them for several moments, thrown that they actually shared inside jokes.

"What are you doing here?" he asked at last.

Cub was saved from answering by the approach of one of Wolf's team members. "Oi, Jacobs, who's this?"

Wolf's eyes didn't leave the boy's as he replied, "Cub."

"_Cub?_" In that exclamation, there was recognition and what sounded like respect. "The infamous Cub who went through selection with you?"

As the sergeant scanned the onlookers, he saw understanding on more faces than he'd expected. Cub's training had reached legendary status, sure, but the sergeant had no idea Cub's tale was so widespread.

"God, Cub," Wolf was saying, "I can't believe this. You were being shot at while skiing down the French Alps on a freaking _ironing _board the last time we met."

At that, Wolf's teammate appraised Cub with, if possible, even more interest. The sergeant was halfway incredulous, almost upset that he was just finding out about this now; but as the surge of anger he felt on Cub's behalf died down, he decided he couldn't even be too surprised. He knew Cub had undertaken dangerous missions before, life-threatening ones, and come out alive.

"That isn't your story to tell," said Cub with a scowl. What he meant was, "That's classified," but classified didn't mean much to these men, who were bonded in duty, entrusting their lives to one another. In fact, Wolf's fellow might have even been a part of the rescue team at Point Blank.

"Well, Cub, I'm Lieutenant Stafford. 'S'an honor to meet you."

Cub looked dubious at the man's words, but shook Stafford's proffered hand.

Stafford said, "So you've been watching the recruits' hand-to-hand combat, yeah? Got any pointers for 'em?"

Cub was silent for a beat, before he gave a snort of laughter. "I doubt they'd want pointers from _me_."

"Oh, c'mon." Stafford cajoled him, but Cub remained firm.

"No, I'm serious—" And before Stafford could contend this, Cub motioned at a short redhead recruit some paces away. "But if you really want something, tell the man over there that he should stop thinking of his height as a disadvantage. Has he ever seen a tall person try to flip someone shorter? It's nearly impossible. He needs to see his qualities as assets."

With that, Cub turned and wandered away. He left a gawking audience in his wake.

"I'm impressed," admitted Stafford.

"What's he doing with you?" Wolf asked the sergeant, who'd been largely forgotten until now.

"I've been looking after him for a while."

"His parents?"

The sergeant sighed. "Dead."

Wolf's mouth opened in a small 'O'.

The sergeant nodded. "I don't know much, but apparently I'm just the most recent in a long line of guardians he's had ever since."

"So during selection, he wasn't..."

"No."

. . .

Later, the sergeant decided to confront Cub about what Major Hinshaw had revealed. He found Cub throwing knives in the target range, where everyone else practiced shooting. When the sergeant commented on this deviation from the norm, Cub said he wasn't 'everyone else'.

The sergeant watched in silence for a while, trying not to be disturbed as the blades found their bull's-eye every time. Even at a distance, the other soldiers present were not as discreet about hiding their reactions.

"Cub," the sergeant said finally, "if you ever need someone to talk to, you know I'll be here to listen, don't you?"

Cub looked at him blankly. "Are you feeling all right, Sarge? You sound like you're quoting a shitty teenage love song."

He turned back to the targets, this time pitching a knife with his non-dominant hand. It sang through the air, and _thwack! _Bull's-eye.

The sergeant rolled his eyes. How could he have forgotten that things were never so straightforward where the boy was concerned?

"Major Hinshaw told me about your previous guardians."

To his credit, Cub barely reacted. "And?"

"And I just thought... maybe you'd like to talk about what'd happened."

"You know I have therapists, right? I'm working with a veritable team of them now."

The sergeant huffed out a breath, shrugging helplessly and unsure if Cub were joking. "Yeah, but..."

He was starting to suspect this was a bad idea. As much as he hated it, Cub had always possessed the ability to reduce his confidence level to that of a socially awkward child. He was startled when Cub broke the silence:

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

_Thwack!_

The boy's eyes were down, expression resigned, as he said, "People around me get hurt."

"You can't blame yourself for that. You aren't—"

Cub laughed. It was an awful sound.

_Thwack!_

"It's okay," said Cub, "I know. People around me get hurt, and sometimes it's their own fault. But sometimes it's mine. And that's hell for me."

The sergeant's throat clenched. Cub shouldn't have to say things like that, dammit.

"I believe you."

"Thanks." Cub ran a hand through his tousled blond hair. "A lot has happened to me, but I'd like to think I've laid most of my demons to rest."

There was a bitter edge to the words, and with all his heart, the sergeant wished Cub didn't _have_ demons to lay to rest. He'd be the first in line to make that so.

He cleared his throat. "In the psych report you showed me—" He could see Cub's face closing off even as he hurried to finish. "Look, we both know what it said, and I don't judge you, I _won__'__t _judge you, but I thought maybe you'd want to talk about it? You don't have to, of course. I just want to help."

_Thwack!_

"I appreciate it."

The sergeant waited patiently, quietly, as though courting an animal he didn't want to scare off. He was both surprised and rewarded when Cub went on.

"I've never told anyone this, but... the revenge thing? Was a red herring for the shrinks. I..." Cub took a deep breath. "Well, I never knew my parents, right? They were killed when I was a baby because my dad—"

He swallowed.

_Thwack!_

"My dad was a spy. You ever heard of SCORPIA?"

Trusting Cub to explain himself, the sergeant ignored the non sequitur and said that he had.

"There's something I need to know about my dad, something MI6 won't tell me. Something I can only find out from SCORPIA." Cub sounded younger than he'd ever had before, an unrecognizable emotion leaking into his voice. "It might sound stupid, but I need to know. I've been lied to my entire life, and I..." He laughed without humor, and the sergeant felt his heart ache for the boy. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to hear this."

"No, Cub, listen to me," the sergeant rushed to reassure him. "I get it. It's important to you. Don't apologize for that."

Cub just shook his head, staring at the ground.

He was young, far too young, only a child. There was plainly more to the story, more to tie it together, but for now the sergeant was glad for this insight.

He said, "I wish I could help you. I really do. I _would_ help you if I could," and it wasn't until after the words left his mouth that he was overwhelmed by how much he meant them, by how much he cared for the boy. In the few weeks they'd known each other, somehow Cub had managed to gain his own space in the sergeant's life.

A long moment passed. Then Cub gave him a small smile. "Thanks, you already are."

They didn't speak for a while, until Cub added, "I don't trust many people. I'll break your spine if you tell anyone what I've said."

The sergeant processed this and felt his lips quirk into a smile. When he left the range, he felt lighter, grateful that he'd finally earned the boy's trust.

. . .

Cub's second stay at Brecon Beacon's was vastly different from his first. He was adored, ribbed good-naturedly, everyone's little brother. He returned a measure of good humor to the camp, and it seemed to alter the atmosphere entirely. Unfortunately, the sergeant's reputation as a hardnosed slave driver was ruined forever once the soldiers saw him in paternal mode, but it was something he could live with.

Life settled into a routine again, which the sergeant relished. He ignored the inner voice that told him _routine __got __people __killed_, because the voice sounded suspiciously like Cub's, and, well, the sergeant was a soldier at heart, not a spy, so it figured he would've picked up and, more importantly, ignored the paranoid thought processes from Cub.

He really shouldn't've been so surprised when everything went to hell.

. . .

Hinshaw checked up on the sergeant regularly, sometimes in an official setting, but mostly through seemingly carefully constructed accidents. The major asked thinly veiled questions about Cub each time, and the sergeant obliged him with frustratingly vague answers. So when the sergeant realized they were long overdue for one of their chats, he knew something was wrong. He just didn't know what.

His first hint came from Wolf, who accosted him on their trudge to the mess hall one evening.

"Has MI6 contacted you yet?"

"About what?" The sergeant slid him a confused, sidelong glance. Wolf's lips were set in a terse line, his shoulders bunched.

"If you don't know, then I guess I shouldn't say."

"But you'll tell me anyway."

Wolf shrugged, staring straight ahead. "I can't pretend to know all the details, and I definitely shouldn't be sharing them, in any case."

The sergeant waited patiently. Wolf jerked his head, motioning them to walk around the side of the building instead of in. They were soon alone, surrounded by nothing but twilight.

"Cub thinks MI6 is preparing to take him away," Wolf said without preamble. "He won't say why, but I have a feeling it has to do with our next mission. We're leaving for London tonight."

The sergeant regarded Wolf curiously. "You shouldn't be telling me this." He didn't have clearance to discuss active SAS missions; they both knew that.

"We're going after SCORPIA," said Wolf in answer. _Raising __the __proverbial __finger __at __protocol, __then_, thought the sergeant. _So __that's __how __it __was __going __to __be._

"And?"

"They're holding a conference. All the heads will be there. We shouldn't even have known about this—no government has ever been able to track them down—but Cub... I don't know how he did it, but he's gotten intel on their next meeting. And we've confirmed it."

The sergeant studied Wolf's profile as the other man stared out into the darkness. His features could've been carved from stone.

Wolf went on, "Cub, though... Either he's done something to piss off MI6, or they think he's about to make himself a liability, because from the way he was talking, it seems they're going to rein in his leash and he's not about to let that happen."

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. "From the way he was talking?"

"You know how he is. Can't get a straight answer out of him."

The sergeant looked down, smoothing out his shirt, thinking. The mention of SCORPIA was sounding alarm bells in his head. "He's about to do something incredibly rash and stupid, isn't he?"

Wolf shrugged. "Not necessarily rash nor stupid—" Cub had neither qualities. "—but certainly dangerous."

Pushing himself away from the wall, the sergeant turned to leave. "I'm going to go find him. We'll talk."

Wolf nodded. "Good luck."

. . .

Cub wasn't in the mess hall, nor did the sergeant spot him on the grounds. Worried, the sergeant returned to staff quarters, to find Cub's door closed and locked. Despite his best efforts, the sergeant jumped immediately to the worst of conclusions. He rapped sharply, trying not to let any of his growing distress leak through. His knocks met with silence.

"Cub?" he called. "You in there?"

He heard a faint rustling. The knob turned, and the door swung open. Cub appeared in the doorway, blocking the sergeant's attempts to peer past him.

"What's wrong?" the boy asked.

The sergeant folded his arms, scrutinizing Cub's face. It was mild, giving nothing away. "I should be asking you the same. Wolf spoke to me; he's concerned about you. What's going on?"

Cub glanced down the halls both ways, then sighed, gesturing the sergeant in. The sergeant's eyes widened in shock as he noticed the Walter PPK that Cub had been hiding behind his back. Cub checked the gun's safety before tossing it on his bed next to a small, splayed open suitcase. It was obvious Cub was in the midst of packing.

"So?" prompted the sergeant, frowning down at the neat stack of clothes, the spare weapons arranged scrupulously beside it. "Do we have to play twenty questions, or will you be straight with me for once?"

Cub laughed softly. "MI6 has no sense of gratitude, did you know?"

The sergeant watched silently as Cub began to fold a last pile of clothes. The boy said, "I give them some intel, and what do they do? Slam me for my _methods_." He tacked on with a scoff, "As if everything they do is legal—they've no moral ground to stand on."

"You're going to have to start at the beginning." The sergeant paused. "Chronological order is preferable."

Cub laughed again, a biting sound. "What is there to say? I handed them SCORPIA on a silver plate, and not only do they bar me from the mission, they plan to bring me in for interrogation." He looked up, holding the sergeant's gaze steadily. "I'm leaving."

The sergeant felt his mouth open, then close. When Cub stood, zipping his suitcase deftly, the sergeant shot out a hand to stop him. "Wait, how can you be sure they're taking you in?"

Cub raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I've been playing their games for a long time."

The sergeant considered this, clearing his throat. He was never good at lying to himself, and he knew what he needed to do now, despite his reservations. "I'm coming with you."

Cub's eyebrow darted higher. "You'll be committing treason."

Yes, that was unfortunate. The sergeant hoped they didn't still hang people for that. "Either you let me come with you, or I go to Major Hinshaw right now."

"I could always sedate you," said Cub, his voice a challenge.

The sergeant stood firm. "You wouldn't."

Cub was silent for a beat. "Why?"

"... Why what?" asked the sergeant in confusion.

"Why would you come with me?"

He gave Cub an incredulous stare. "Haven't I made it clear that I'm invested in your well-being?"

"Enough to throw your life away for me?"

"I hardly think I'd be—"

"Forget it," Cub spoke over him. "If you're coming, then we leave now. But on one stipulation: your ID badge."

"What?"

"The one that gains you government access. Bring it."

The sergeant frowned but acceded. Within minutes, he made the trip to his room, not deigning to pack because he'd scarcely brought anything to camp anyway, and was settling into the car next to Cub.

Cub sat in the driver's seat. "We're going to London. Try to get some sleep. We'll stop for food along the way."

As Cub pulled onto the road, the sergeant briefly considered asking questions, then decided they could wait until tomorrow.

They made the journey in relative silence, the darkness all around them. The sergeant slept fitfully against his window. Eventually, they stopped at a fast food restaurant, and the sergeant offered to take over driving. Cub steadfastly refused.

Around one o'clock, the stars winked out and London finally rose up before them, its lights painted across the sky. Cub slowed as they entered city limits.

The boy spoke at last, "We can't go to your flat yet, and we have to ditch this car. I'll need you to do some things for me, since I can't go out 'til I get a dye job. Are you up for it?"

A tendril of unease curled into the sergeant's stomach, but he put it aside, agreeing.

As he watched Cub hotwiring a car, the sergeant thought of weeks prior and wondered just how slippery the slope was. Were they fugitives now? He didn't know.

Their new car was nondescript, a sleek sedan in a city full of sleek sedans. Cub drove it to a block in Southwark, parked, and led the sergeant up to a flat on the third floor of an old building. It didn't look lived in, exactly, but it was clean. Much to the sergeant's horror, there were frills everywhere. The tea cozies on the sitting room coffee table were made of _lace._

"Wait here," Cub said, unaffected as always. He retreated to one of the bedrooms and came out with a ring of keys. He thrust them upon the sergeant with directions to two train station lockers and a warehouse, and also gave the man a new mobile, entreating him to call every hour.

"Your paranoia knows no bounds," the sergeant informed him. Cub only shrugged.

Back out in the streets, the sergeant slid into the car and took a deep breath, starting the engine. His unease was growing, but he told himself he knew what he'd been getting into. Cub had said he was leaving MI6, and the sergeant had agreed with the decision wholeheartedly. He resolved he would help the boy settle into a new life, and then he would go back to his own.

The train stations were nearly deserted and looked disconcertingly similar to one other, despite being on opposite sides of the city. He found the lockers quickly. Both of them held plain manila envelopes, and since the sergeant wasn't sure what he had been expecting, he felt rather relieved. He couldn't resist peeking inside, and thus discovered the multiple passports, identification papers, and unmarked bills in various denominations within. He replaced them fastidiously.

The warehouse was harder to find. It was off a deserted side street in the East End, the entrance located in an alleyway. It was chilly and very dark when he stepped out of the car. He drew his jacket around himself tightly and hurried inside the building. Second floor, Cub had said. And just as Cub had described it, the sergeant came onto an open storage area full of crates. He spotted the trunk Cub had spoken of against the far wall, and it was locked, almost too heavy for the sergeant to carry. He lugged it back to the car, thankfully without seeing a hint of another person or throwing his back. Satisfied, he drove off.

Dawn was teasing the edges of the horizon when he returned. Cub, hunched over a laptop in the kitchen, looked up and smiled.

"Thanks," he said, picking up a gun.

The sergeant barely registered the _bang _before his world slipped into darkness.

. . .

His head was pounding when he jerked awake, bound to a chair. His vision swam, then came into focus. Cub's form took shape in front of him.

"Drink." The boy was holding a glass of water, bringing it to the sergeant's lips. The sergeant managed several sips before awareness hit. He choked, spitting out his current mouthful, and coughed. _Tranquilized. _He'd been tranquilized. Cub had shot him.

"What? What are you—?"

"Shh," the boy said, shushing him gently. His next words were measured, calm. "I felt I owed you an explanation before I put you back to sleep. Don't worry. I'll make sure someone finds you, but I'm afraid this will be the last time we see each other."

"What's going on?" the sergeant demanded, fear creeping into his tone. Cub appeared the same as ever, but at the same time, it didn't seem to be _Cub _here. At least, not the Cub he knew.

"I have to confess, I haven't been telling you the whole truth. I've been wanting to get away from MI6 for a while now, but that's not why I'm here. I'm here for SCORPIA."

"What?"

"You're repeating yourself again." Cub sounded vaguely amused. His eyes were faraway. "I don't go in for the whole 'villain revealing all his plans' shtick—archetypes are cliché, aren't they?—but you're a great person and you deserve to know." He paused, pulling up a chair. The sergeant noticed that they were still in the kitchen. Light was now seeping through the melon-hued curtains above the sink. "I remember you asked for a chronological explanation, so here you go: The SAS have already detained the SCORPIA board members, and at this very moment, they are being transferred to a secure facility. I'm tracking them, and once they're settled in, I'll be using your ID to gain access—"

"But I don't have the clearance!" The sergeant was shock numbed, processing Cub's speech with reluctance. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.

"I know. I fixed you into the system. It's always easier to tamper with an identity that already exists than to create one, so thanks." Cub's tone suggested they both knew the sergeant wouldn't want gratitude for _this. _Yet Cub still felt like he owed the man. "Moving along. Once I'm in the building, I'll plant and detonate the explosives, and boom, the end of SCORPIA."

"Hold on, what explosives?" the sergeant asked, horrified.

"The ones in the trunk you brought from the warehouse," the boy explained, and the man felt dazed. He'd been aiding and abetting a grand scheme of _murder._

"Why are you doing this?" He barely recognized his own voice, strangled as it was, pitched high.

"Revenge," said Cub, as though it were obvious.

The words rose to the sergeant in a nauseating wave: _A. __is __driven __mainly __by __revenge... __A. __is __not __entirely __sane... __worryingly __self-aware... __doesn__'__t __care __much __for __his __own __well-being... __sociopath..._

And Hinshaw had warned him too, hadn't he?

"You said revenge was a cover," the sergeant finally whispered, his face completely ashen.

"I lied."

"You've been—you've been manipulating me this whole time?" The betrayal stung worse than a bullet wound ever could. He'd thought there was trust between them

"I didn't want to lie to you about my father," admitted Cub, "but it was a contingency. I'd known about SCORPIA's conference by that time and had decided to go after them, and I'd thought, in case I needed help, I might as well guarantee I'll get it."

"But you..." The sergeant's head was spinning, as he tried to reconcile these words with what he'd believed. "You were trying to talk me out of coming with you!"

Cub merely looked at him. "Was I? Or was I making sure that you and I both knew what you wanted, that you wouldn't have second thoughts?"

The sergeant didn't know what to think, now. How many lies had Cub fed him? Had he even known the boy at all?

He focused again as Cub stood, his chair scraping back. "I'm sorry, truly. And I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. I haven't had many people care for me the way you have."

The boy was already retreating.

"Where are you going?" the sergeant called, panicked.

"It's time to end SCORPIA."

Cub's smile was grim. The sergeant felt sick just looking at it.

"So you're just... just going to walk in and blow the whole thing up?"

"Got it in one."

"But what about all the innocents you'll be killing? MI6 agents? SAS members? What about _Wolf?__"_

Cub shook his head. "'The ends justify the means' had always been MI6's motto when it came to using me. It's time I adopted their philosophy."

"No, _no_, you're making a mistake! Cub, listen to me—"

But it was too late. Cub had drawn his gun. He pulled the trigger, and everything faded to black.

. . .

epilogue

Cub kept his word. The sergeant woke up in a hospital, to the news that SCORPIA's holding compound had, indeed, been rendered to smithereens. Collateral had been massive. MI6 interrogated him extensively, but there wasn't much he could share. The process was salt on his wounds, forcing him to realize that, in reality, he'd barely known anything about Cub—only the small details, the way he cleaned religiously, the way he liked his eggs. It was as though the sergeant had seen every individual dot of a pointillist painting, but not the actual work.

He never saw Cub again.

The boy was missing, presumed dead.

But the sergeant liked to think that somewhere out there, Cub was still cherry-picking his tomatos, terrorizing coffee tables, doing kata to Queens with no one to stop him. It was what he'd wanted.

. . .

the end

. . .

*actually, it's possible for someone black with recessive white genes to have a white child. ;)

AN: ...Rather mediocre writing, IMHO, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway!

I'd like to thank **ObsessivelyOdd,**who gave me the idea and without whom this fic would never have been written. I also cite **Fridgeworks** for the sergeant/Alex concept, and though I haven't read her fic, I'm assured it's brill.

Reviews make me smile, and please point out any mistakes! xx


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